


Rotary

by Hikou



Series: Spiral [3]
Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: F/M, Self-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-11-23 08:44:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11399097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hikou/pseuds/Hikou
Summary: My life sits before me and still the pieces to the puzzle don't fit. My timeline is not straight; it spirals, faultlessly and helplessly. We're all stuck in the same circle, and we're all too stupid to just turn out. [Sequel to Full Circle; Spiral Part 3]





	1. Coordination

It is the first day of kindergarten, and the world around me is suddenly frighteningly breakable. 

I'm as composed as a five year old girl can be, too misinformed to smile, raised too well to cry. I'm sure I'll never outwail the little boy next to me, anyway, and even at five it's all or nothing--spotlight or no light. I am the center of my own universe and don't care enough to give any other spectrum a second thought. 

It doesn't matter that this boy is crying, that my mother is too. My eyes are locked on the playhouse across the room, a boy hanging out the tiny window, chucking plastic pieces of fruit and too-small cereal boxes at another child. His name starts with an M. 

I think it's Mitch. 

At five years old, he has proclaimed himself alpha male of the classroom, and I already feel the need to attach myself. 

The teacher is telling me something, too old to really hear her own words, ingrained repetitively into her mind over the years, and I am scampering away from my mother and the criers who are still clinging to skirts because I want to throw toy groceries with Mitch. 

Really, this is where it all has started. 

With a boy who may or may not have been named Mitchell, bullying children not old enough to yet read their own name. To what end, I can't imagine.

And it almost doesn't seem real. Not just because I can't remember a time when my life was so simplistic, or because my mother for once in her life is sobbing silently, or because the nametag strung from my tiny neck does _not_ read Hikou. 

But because this is so heartbreakingly familiar. 

Because I'm twenty-six years old and it's the first day of kindergarten again.

Yuuta is waiting expectantly behind me, and though there are no tears in his eyes, he ought to fit this role well. Because I recall the woman being every bit as downright _mean_ as he is, and though his compassion could never be described as 'motherly,' neither could hers. 

This new President, some warped mutation of blonde hair and blue eyes that I'm supposed to believe sprung from old Shinra, has come to greet us. Despite the fact it is in plainly in his nature to not care. His speech is repetitive and obligatory. 

I don't run, but I'm staring at him. It's hard to pinpoint, too. They've all absorbed that confident stance, men and women and blue suits all projecting that atmosphere of _alpha male,_ but I've selected in such a short time. 

His hands are folded neatly together, leaning casually in the back, just _intimidating_ beneath dark glasses, seeming infinitely solid and statuesque against the rapid fidgeting of his red-haired counterpart _._ He is cold, and experienced, and entirely too professional for his own good. His uniform is so _uniform._ He could've been manufactured for all I knew, and the thought of an assembly line somewhere popping out ten life-sized, fully functional copies of this hardened killer every minute, tug the corners of my mouth into a warped version of a smile. 

A gesture he does not return. 

They are running through company protocol I don't care for, _TURK_ rules to killing people, mandatory introductions, _Tseng, Elena, Mikari, Reno, Snow_ and I am five years old again, running across the room to play king of the castle. I want a fake tomato to throw at his shiny head. 

Not because I especially don't like him or that I don't appreciate the whole _I can take a bullet and then shoot you seven times_ persona, just because he doesn't offer anything. And I'm not sure if he's fallen asleep under those glasses.

"Who's that?"

"Rude," someone answers, voice soft and feminine, something I am not used to working with, something I am unconditioned to hearing. 

I do it just because it is plainly too easy. 

"I'll say."


	2. Consolation

I would be lying if I said that this haunting sense of nostalgia wasn't beginning to annoy me. 

Every word, every setting, every flicker of a person had some sort of warped implication I could not pretend I didn't understand or remember. Everything was a reminder of a world that had no place here, and I was starting to wonder if it had no place here, was I really fooling myself into believing that I did as well. 

It wasn't any surprise that the apartment I had signed for before I'd seen held the same musty memories I could not shake, and it struck me every time I opened the door. 

Because maybe all apartments had that same set up--living room, kitchenette, bath, bed, but every time I stepped onto that cheap-tiled entrance and looked around there was a little girl staring up from the floor back at me. Though the television is not on, I know what program she should be watching. 

I half expect to walk down the hallway and find my mother still asleep in the master bedroom, not due to wake up until well past noon, my father not due to be home again until well past six. 

But I've made that race a thousand times already, and I know it's only my bed I'll find--plain sheets, bare walls, closet near empty, bedside table devoid of anything but a plain white binder. 

And somehow this thought banishes the little girl on the floor, she evaporates into the thought of a young woman's bedroom, walls plastered in faces she'll never meet, scrawled poetry of men she'll never understand, decorations and souvenirs of lands she never has and never will visit. 

I wonder what has happened to this girl. 

I wonder when my life has become so sterile. 

Someone is pounding on the door behind me, and I'm still standing in my would-be foyer with one shoe on, tie half unknotted. 

My left hand is already clicking at the deadbolt before it occurs to me to take note of what my right is doing. The door swings open, and I only realize it's a handgun when the barrel is pressed so swiftly to flesh, and a pulse beats against cold metal. I only have time to think that I do not recognize this face as the bullet explodes through his jaw, up and out of his head. 

He looks dirty, and sadly, this is the only thing I can think to describe him as, as his body falls limp against the concrete steps. 

A woman in a blue suit is sprinting towards me, but at the sight of his half-exploded skull, brains and fluids and other such nonsense leaking out, she slams on the brakes. The replay is funny, the way she almost stumbles over onto her face as her feet move to stop faster than her body knows how. Her eyes widen as her mouth snaps shut. 

She can't imagine how I'd known to shoot him, and I can't imagine having not. 

Her name is Elena, I believe, and she's still standing there when the other girl walks right by her. 

Her eyes do not widen or narrow, nothing in them changes as she reaches down and pries the gun out of this corpse's hand, detaches it like one would yank a plug out of a socket. I don't think she even sees this thing as human, I have to wonder if it would matter if she did anyway. 

"That was a nice shot," she tells me. 

And I remember this one as Mikari. 

"But you're off the clock, aren't you?" 

I nod slowly, although I can't recall ever being off the clock. 

"Oh, well, we'll write you in the report, I guess," she consoles, and turns to walk away. It takes Elena a moment to follow stiffly. 

They feel like creatures out of Wonderland, and when I retract back into the house, body still gushing out on my doorstep, the little girl is waiting. 

I think I might be going crazy.


	3. Chatter

It is alarming how easy the system is to fall back into. 

Perhaps I just fooled myself in believing I ever left to begin with. 

Mission fades into mission, fades into mission, fades into mission, and it's scary when I wake up at moments like these to find myself at the side of that long cherry wood table. 

It looks more like a banquet hall at first, but there are no silver goblets before our countless numbers, only papers I don't care enough to read and file-folders I've left unopened. In truth, it reminds me a lot of the old SOLDIER awards ceremonies, in practice and decorum, though I'm sure they haven't newly stapled the velvet carpet of floor 66 down for my benefit and if I actually had it within me to give half a shit, I'm certain I could find something useful to say. 

But I never do. 

None of us ever do. 

We listen to Rufus and his underlings drone. We keep to ourselves. We simply sit and cap the end of the table black in three neat pairs of two. 

I find myself oddly pleased that there are enough of us to pair face to face. Tseng taking the end of the table, nearest the door, I'm sure as some sort of bodyguard act, too far distanced from the conversation at hand to be considered the guest of honor. 

My table etiquette is growing faulty. 

Snow sits, eyes schooled to the agenda, on his right, a placement I'm afraid I've read much too far into, Elena facing her at his left--the Queen's seat, I can't help but muse. Reno's wiggled his way between the two of us, and I don't know what sort of game they've got going under the table, but judging by Mikari's misplaced kick, it's not a fun one.

I'm left on the end, Rude placed before me hopelessly.

Stranded. 

And I can't decide if I want to pull my elbow all the way through my skin, back through my ribcage, or push it well into this man beside me's bubble of comfort, stake my territory, make him squirm. 

Thoughts of school cafeterias haunt me, buzzing just half a tone below the whispers of executives and _important people_ gathered along the line, accented very realistically with Reeve's impassioned shouts, Director Miura's soft logic. 

I want to speak and break this circle, but I'm in the third grade again, and I'm just listening to other students' conversations. I'm eavesdropping to the benefit of no one. 

The demands are the same as they ever have been.

_More money._

__I can sympathize.

Because I've skipped lunch for the third day this week, just to save my two dollars and thirty-five cents, to what end, I do not know.

The meeting adjourns as it always does, in a disarray of papers and garbage, children in expensive suits shoving through the only two doors we have, and Rufus heads the pack, ever the popular kid, crowd tailing him as namelessly as they had ever been, even though their lunchboxes are labeled. 

The cap of black is rising.

I must stand too. I must stand and pretend I am not eight years old. 

We cap the exit too, and I am too busy staring at the impressive sleeper-hold Reno has managed to pin on his adversary to notice when she lingers far enough behind me to ask. "Is everything alright?" 

And I jump, not because I haven't expected them to notice. Unlike SOLDIER there are only seven of us, tied too closely to escape speculation. I jump because I haven't expected anyone to ask. 

I answer, "Yes," out of habit.


	4. Choice

It is a game I cannot win. 

It lapses so subtly I forget it ever happened. I sink into my bored nature, Mikari's teasing jibes, Tseng's poorly displayed concerned, Rude's flushed aggravation. When I remember I'm doing well to forget, I remember that I'm trying to forget. 

And my house of cards comes crashing down. 

I must start anew. 

But I do well on the in-between. My completion rating is 98.9 or some other ridiculous figure, my rank and awards are through the roof, but then again, all of ours are, and somehow this plateaus into being childish. Between reconnaissance missions I watch bad daytime TV with Reno, after eliminating targets Rude and I sometimes go for drinks, just at the office, sometimes it's just us girls for lunch. 

It seems so odd that there should be so little story to tell, but I have come to terms with it. 

There is so little to say because so much was successful. As a Turk, there was no great moral dilemma sniping people who wanted to kill _you_ first. As a Turk, we hesitate as a group inside of steel walls; together we accept our decision, better or worse, and together we resent the dissenters and the insiders, white-coated, or red-tied, or strawberry blonde. As a Turk, I've never had a comrade bleed out in my arms. 

So I surf through rebellion after rebellion, kill after kill, drink after drink. 

I become not the carefree one, but the careless one, childish and narcissistic, yet some how experienced and reserved. I play across the spectrum day in and day out. 

Satisfied at intervals. At peace with what _this_ world has given and taken from me, and old enough to cope well enough with the plague of the one before. Somewhere along the way, carving a trail between bodies I've created, I've learned my biggest mistake is thinking this world owes me anything. 

Especially an explanation.

But then the old touches the new, they grind against each other so briefly, but the reaction is chemical. Like a match to its box. 

The fire has been lit. 

Maybe I've had one too many injections. Maybe I'm just tired. Maybe I'm still drunk.

It's been planted like a bomb before I've even detected it. Everything is so deep and philosophical, has been in every context, because I am lost within a lapse. I've forgotten to remember that I'm trying to forget. 

I carry through the day with ease, bored and careless Hikou, she laughs and accepts these awkward friendships, though she's been toying with the concept for a while now. It doesn't even feel like I'm acting. I haven't remembered that I'm a caricature. That once there was a girl whose name was not Hikou. 

And after she's danced through paperwork and through a cascade of bullets, after she's been out for mandatory drinks, once she's slipped into bed, and Hikou has closed her eyes for the night, it's not long before the other girl wakes up. 

And it's been so long since I've been her, but she remembers.

The girl who should've been rolling over in the wreckage of her shitty Buick is sitting up in my bed sobbing, and Hikou is laying somewhere on the pillow, watching this display with dead eyes. 

God help me, I can't remember which I am. 

But she recognizes and identifies, and though her eyes are tear-streaked she's pulling the puzzle of old protocol into place for me. How should Hikou have been so stupid to have missed this. How could she have ruined this process. How could she have ruined her life. 

How could she have let me become this monster?

"We've missed a step," she says aloud.

I am bitterly angry with this girl, whether we are the same or not, because she comes from a land of grey middles, without beginning or end, and she has no right to judge me. 

Or the men I've killed.

Or the men I've loved. 

Because she has had neither. She may roll in her grave of broken glass and twisted metal.

Fuck her.

I don't sit up to tell her. It doesn't even feel like my lips have moved, but I hear the words, soft and commanding. Final. "You don't belong here." 

I don't know which I am in the morning, laying in bed, eyes plastered shut in tears I no longer need. 

The two worlds touch, so minutely, grazing at best, but the explosion of their spark is electric, and this is what has been left behind. 

Is this what I really want. 

It's a sick game to play, asking yourself this question, what would you move the stars to accomplish, because men cannot move stars. But when I close my eyes and ask, I see David Ellis, and blue suits. I see Zack, and Kunsel, and green syringes. I see labrats, and magic tricks, and marbles I don't know how to play with. 

I see Kwan-Ahn and a routine life in the most basic nature of the word, and it still makes me happier than I can ever recall being.

I see the black death of stigma and the healthy pink glow of Rufus Shinra's ever scowling face.

It is enough, I decide, to go to war over. 


	5. Credence

Often enough, our biggest mistake is thinking the world owes us something, especially an explanation.

No one can tell me what happened between here and there. The same way that no one can tell me why David Ellis had to die. And the same way that no one can tell me why we were cursed with this Stigma. 

I've decided to give up asking. 

But I am not the world, certainly not this one. 

I have my debts and I've kept my scores. I know it's time to go calling. 

I've chosen to tell Snow first, and I want very much to pretend that I don't know why, but one mustn't try to block the whole sky with their palm. At best, she will tell the others should I lose my nerve, and at worst, she will listen. Snow is prompt, relatively punctual, and down to business; she's easy to get a hold of. I feel she understands the act of impassivity we practice, and I know speaking at statues is easier. 

More than this, she is pack leader, and somehow I know it, though none of us recognize it. Perhaps I am reading too far into seating arrangements again, but this is how I've decided. However, I cannot help but feel confidence at this when she sits across the desk from me with a motionless face. "Is everything alright?" 

Perhaps she cannot yet gauge the situation, but I feel at the helm of this world when I reply, "No," of no forced habit. 

She raises an eyebrow because she knows she doesn't have to ask. I asked her here to tell her something, and we both know I need no prompt. 

"I have a meeting with the president," I explain, and I can't keep the shit eating grin from my face. "I won't be a Turk much longer." 

The obvious question is _what,_ but the first thing out of her mouth is, "How much longer?"

"A day at most." 

The silence is weighing in thick, and I feel like I should be nervous, holding out my letter of resignation for this girl who is not really our leader to take, but it feels very oddly tranquil. Rather than the spikes of tension being pounded through my bloodstream, every pulse of my heart feels like a quiet wave on the shore--small, minuscule, _planned for._

__It has taken her a moment to figure out that there is no clever or nonthreatening way to say this. "What _are_ you planning?" 

"What I was trained for."

"Hikou--" she tries to warn, but I easily bat the words out of the air.

I reach out a hand and clasp hers as I stand, a weak shake that she doesn't quite return. It's more like holding hands. She looks unprepared, off-guard, but the way she looks at me when I say, "It was good working with you," I can't imagine that she hadn't seen this coming. 

Somehow my resolve is strengthened. 

I leave her sitting speechless in the office. 

Reno is not hard to find, you can hear Mikari screaming all the way from inside the elevator, _doors closed._

__"A PHS is a very _sensitive_ piece of equipment! You can't just go throwing it around like that! He's likely to get _hurt!"_

__"It's _my_ fucking phone; I'll do what I want." 

It's about this point she smacks him, and Rude winces from the corner of the breakroom as the sound of flesh on flesh reverberates down the hallway. Elena smiles mildly in satisfaction at the sound.

It's theatric when I step through the door, and feed them the line, "I'm leaving." 

"You gettin' food?" Reno asks, hand still holding his reddened cheek. 

"No," I admit, and pull his hand away to inspect. "Try not to get into too much trouble, huh?"

"Tell _her_ that," Reno barks, and he's already glaring at the girl beside us as she tinkers with his stolen PHS. 

I have to smile. 

But Rude knows something is amiss. Something in my tone is not right. Something in the time of day is strange. Something in the way I walk is uncharacteristic. The man has all the pieces he needs to solve this mystery, his surveillance is constant behind those veiled eyes, but as quick as he is at processing, he's always been slow at dispersing. 

It doesn't stop the blonde at his side from noticing. She opens her mouth to ask _what,_ or _why_ , or _where_ \--

"Tell Tseng I'm out for the day," I interrupt before I am revealed.

Reno grunts. Mikari waves. Elena sighs. Rude does not breathe. 

Elena is the only one to wonder, "...Where's she going?" as I slip out the door. 

Reno only shrugs, attention already drawn away to the television, "Broads."


	6. Capture

It's as grand an office as it has ever been, an entire floor dedicated to a lack of decoration and personality. It is much too large an office for a normal man. Too much light pours in from the bay windows that encase us in this terrarium, too high for the citizens of Edge to peer in at what was once their leader, low enough for him to still observe them. 

The space is boundless and hopelessly empty. Any normal person would be driven insane by this infinite expanse of tile, these too few potted plants, but I suppose Rufus Shinra appreciates finally having enough room to accommodate his ego. 

I know I appreciate there being no hopeless fixturing for his words to bounce back from, guide to my ears. It is lost in the expanse of nothing behind us. 

But this doesn't mean I cannot read lips. 

"No." 

And there is no hope in misplacing his follow-up. "Are you mad? Are you absolutely mad!" His hands are clutching the arms of his big leather office chair tightly enough that I fear _he_ might be. "Do you understand how delicate our public relations are? What sort of backlash this will cause?" 

I ought to answer yes. I ought to explain that I understand, that more than this, I am counting on it. 

I wish I knew some sort of coy cat-and-the-canary move to pull, but I am not used to the feeling of suave. I have no practice at it. So I sit as still as I have been when I speak again. "I'm afraid I don't understand how absorbing the World _Restoration_ Organization is going to muddy the Shinra name."

"You're not talking about consolidating, Ms. Shinohara," he snaps back like an old professor, like he's got me in detention. "You are talking about _take over,_ most likely of the hostile sort." 

" _I_ am talking about Restoration of our own." I am meant to have been feeding him lines like this for the past half hour--tip of the tongue phrases I don't really believe to get me what I want, but I have to wonder if I've taken the time to think of them, I must believe in them. 

"Your 'Restoration' is no responsibility of this company. We're coming by just fine." What he means to say is, _Case closed._

 __"Bullshit."

" _Excuse_ me?"

He looks incredulous, but I can't imagine he believes the words that he's saying. I don't know if I could cope with Rufus Shinra being this stupid. "Have you seen the figures for the last quarter?" The expression on his face tells me that he has, but that he cannot imagine I have. I am only the hired help. I am only brute force; I _always_ have been. People like me, we do not make demands, we do not read the paperwork given to us. "This corporation is being driven into the red faster than horse carriage to Hell. We spend money we don't have rebuilding, and donating, and financing endeavors that earn us nothing. We own no astounding technology, and the world outside grants us no favors." I'm not sure when I've stood up in this tirade, but I'm pacing fast enough to have to spin on my heel to face the man. "With all due respect, _Mister_ President, our public image is worth as much as our profits, and that's at-- _what?--_ negative 42-point-whatever _million gil_."

He knows that I'm right, and goddamn, does he hate me for it. He's contemplating right now, that if he hit the call button under his desk would anyone in a blue suit man-up fast enough to kill me. Does he still own anyone that dedicated? 

But Rufus Shinra, he is wise, or so he thinks, he has seen the wars of his father--not as exclusively as I have, no, but telecast on TV, he understands the concept of terror well enough without having been a part of it. "An army does not turn profits, and neither does battle. You're angling to dig me farther into the hole, Shinohara."

I have to smile at his dropped formalities, at his simple logic, because I've thought well enough on this part. "Do you remember Captain Highwind?" I ask.

And he stares. "Space Program. AVALANCHE."

My nod is deliberately slow. "He and his friend Mr. Wallace, they've struck oil somewhere on the Western Continent, did you know that?" I don't give him a moment to answer. "Imagine that. Oil, huh?" This display looks ridiculous in person, much more cutting and disrespectful than it sounds in my head, but I can't bring myself to care all that much. "And they've no refining methods, no trained professionals, just a load of slummers and a pile of scrap metal pipes. I wonder... just how much they'll make from it all."

He's glaring. He has more to say, but I am not finished. 

"Mr. Tuesti. Director, I suppose now. Do you remember him?" 

If he didn't hate me before, he does now. 

"He's an awful nice commander, at least that's what I hear." The thoughtful pause is too much. "Of course, _I_ wouldn't know. It's funny, but I don't think I've spoken to him or his men more than twice. Odd, considering the Turks requested back-up from the WRO thirty-two times last year." 

"You know, it's hard for seven operatives to try and save the world on their own, strong and fearless though we are," I almost wink, "but I _really_ thought he would come that one time, or at least send a few troops, when that third terrorist group nabbed you right outside the building, but you know, he didn't even call us back until it ran in the papers."

"Do you remember what it said?" I ask him.

I can see his fingers dancing on top of the call button.

I actually laugh out loud this time. "It was a very nice _expose_ on the rising threat of Shinra Inc, and how every little bit of help the citizens can give counts." 

"Do you honestly think anyone would support a Shinra army?" This boy asks me. And the question, in and of itself, is a small victory, because his resolve his wearing, his defenses are thin. His only excuse is not that I am wrong, or this is wrong, but that we do not have the means to create such a thing. "The world's greatest enemy was our greatest ex-SOLDIER." 

It is hard not to sound bitter. Not because I have some great feeling for Sephiroth, or that I can pretend I've seen him more than once in my life, but because I have witnessed the fact that he once, if only for the moment I had him in my line of vision, was a real entity, not a legend or a curse--not a storybook villain. "The _world's greatest enemy_ was a thousand-ton chunk of space-ice, and the world's greatest hero is Cloud Strife, SOLDIER, 1st Class. " My imitation is flawless. 

"Strife was never a SOLDIER." 

"The world speaks differently."

Rufus stares.

It seems this is all he is capable of doing. I'm winning. 

And I know it. 

Sir." For some reason it is important now to regain respect. I am smart enough to trust my instincts, although the name _President Prickface_ crosses my mind more than once. "I'm not suggesting we can save the whole world, or that I have any intention to, but you'd be a fool to think that nothing good can come of this." It seems too early for closing arguments, and yet I've been standing here so long I'm sick of my own voice. "Shinra doesn't have much left over. Rufus, I'm simply asking for the opportunity to protect what little we have left." 

Silence engulfs the room, and this takes longer than it should because there is so much volume to fill. Every corner is minutes and minutes farther apart. It could take years before the bubble even rises to cover my mouth. 

Somehow, he manages to shatter what little progress it has made instantly. Powerfully. "Even if I were to agree, Reeve will never give up the WRO."

I don't have anything left to say, I realize, mouth evaporating into a thin-pressed line.

"I don't have time for this," he tells me, and it's very hard not to show how my heart is plummeting to my feet, through seventy stories of office building, down through the center of the earth, and up the other side, straight into the fires of Da-Chao. "And neither do you."

"I've resigned my post at the Shinra company," I explain in too many words.

He gives me the eye. "Director Shinohara, if you think you're taking your first day off, then you _are_ bloody well mad. The entire SOLDIER program needs to be re-calibrated before it can be reinstated." 

In retrospect, I think I must've looked a lot like a dying fish--twitchy, wide-eyed, and suffering from heart-failure. "Sir?"

He's already busy with other things. Rufus Shinra changes faces too fast. It's unsettling, but I can't say I am displeased. "I want to see you in _that_ spot at _this_ time tomorrow with the details."

"Yes, sir," is all I can manage, as I'm stumbling away. The awkward walk to the staircase is much too long. This office is much too big. 

"Oh, and Director?" he calls. 

My foot is on the first step. I've almost escaped. I've almost won. "Yes?"

"Don't fuck this up."

And I laugh. I cackle like a witch down seventy flights of stairs because I don't remember they've invented the elevator already. I haven't sounded this terrible since the day in that red velvet office, engulfed in the wings of pride and assurance, stability. 

The world of Edge outside is bustling, streaks of grey blurring. They do not know what is about to be unleashed upon them. 

I do not know what is about to be unleashed upon them. 

Looking up, I squint at the clouds, a familiar shade of fluffy white, bleach-blonde. Raising a hand to shade my eyes from their harshness, I whisper to them, to _him,_ "Easy for him to say."


	7. Clairvoyance

My footsteps are calculated and logical, meticulously planned in moderation, an easy pace of evenly matched distance. 

I cannot sense the foreboding in them. 

I am too stupid to understand why this will not work; why the world has every right to resent me. 

In my mind's eye, we stand in an alleyway, bloodied bodies scraped against dirty red brick--all that is left of SOLDIER, pathetic and weak, but not for much longer. Though he may have sprouted a second head, completely divided himself into a new man, though the man I knew to begin with never was much for unified pride or preserving the line of order, he is all I have left. 

And I trust wholeheartedly that Yuuta will help me resurrect what we once had, that he will be happy to do so. That Mr. Director, head of financing, part-time agent, is still on my team. 

It's a death trap I'm walking into--a deathtrap lined in paned-glass walls, an office never small enough to contain his wrath. 

He looks at me as if he's suddenly forgotten who I am when the words spill out of my mouth, dribble down my chin like some sort of sick child, and I still don't understand. 

"You _imbecile._ " I don't even realize it's me he's speaking to. "You idiotic woman." 

And I've never been overly fond of this man's opinions or cared a great deal his opinion of me or my worldly beliefs, but it stings a little bit, like a scab scratched off to early. "Yuuta?" falls away, nervous and confused, childlike. 

I am innocent, at least, in my naivete. 

"Go back and tell him you can't do it. Refuse the position!" he orders me.

I'm afraid I don't understand this language. His tone of fear and anxiety. This is foreign to me, new to his voice, an aspect I have not anticipated in my plans. "Yuuta, I _can't._ " 

" **Do it** ," he barks. A dent exploding into the desk, seconds behind the streak of white that is his fist. "I _swear,_ Shinohara. I fucking _swear_..."

But he does not know what he swears. 

Though I have a fairly good idea. 

"Do you know how fucking _close_ we were? To regaining the funding, pigeonholing Shinra in for good!" He's shrieking and flailing, knocking things aside, throwing things into glass windows, because he hasn't decided to strike me yet. 

Consciously, he doesn't know if he still needs me alive. 

And _goddamnit,_ does it hurt more than I thought it would. 

Not only because Yuuta is the only one I have left, but because I am used to this sort of tantrum, to these half-empty threats, to this brand of abuse. 

He's always reminded me a little bit of my mother. 

"It doesn't matter now," my voice is too quiet. 

But I'm right.

It doesn't.

It doesn't matter now because I have no use for these memories and, "It's too late now. It's already done." My hand mistakenly finds his way onto his shoulder. My comfort and condolences are unwelcome here. "I'm sorry." I'm not.

His wrists whips and twirls, doubles around mine and out so fast I'm not certain it's flying at my face, aiming to break my nose until his forearm is blocked against mine. We are swordfighting with fisticuffs. 

I laugh, though I really don't have time.

His other fist is flying at my face. I haven't ducked in time. It'll still shift off of my right eye at best.

But it stops. 

It screeches to a halt with the alarming slap of flesh against flesh, caught in a hand so much larger than Yuuta's. I wonder if he finds it emasculating that Rude is so much larger than he is. He's always been the runt of the troupe.

And although I feel slightly insulted at being protected and coddled in such a way, I know I am lucky he's happened upon us so soon, that his timing is so opportune.

"Is there a problem here?" He asks, words well chosen, quiet, and serious; utterly rude. 

Yuuta's exhalation is a growl--a growl of fury and hate, promises meant to be kept, threats I cannot imagine. He cannot fight two of us. There is blood and glass in his voice, gravely and low when he hisses, "Shinohara, _this is war._ "

He's retreating. He has to. Through the glass wall that is no more, before we have the chance to eliminate this problem before he has began. 

"I know it is; that was the idea."


	8. Channel

**CH 04**

****_City backdrop. White-lined corner photos. Too-bright lipstick. Breaking news._

__"...our prayers are with the family of this unfortunate victim. Breaking news, at the top of the hour, accomplished Shinra employee, Yuuta Miura, has been missing since late last afternoon from his company office in downtown Edge. Authorities were first notified of the disappearance yesterday evening when the man did not return home after work hours. Yuuta has a long record of military service and officials are currently investigating into outstanding grudges he might have taken a part in during his time with the Shinra company. Any information can be--"

**CH 12**

****_Too many chairs. Not enough desk. Bow ties. Balding heads._

__"Bullsh--! Bullsh--! Everybody knows Shinra cut that poor sop because he _knew_ something!"

"Hank, calm down now--"

"Miura's been working with the WRO for well over three years now, and I'm just supposed to buy that it's coincidence that now that new harpy's come up with this Neo-SOLDIER bullsh--!"

"Hank, I'm going to have to ask you to go backstage if you can't--"

"Those f--king pseudo suit-assassins of his probably already have the poor bastard floating face-down in the river by now." 

"For the love of Ramuh, will somebody cut his mic!" 

"Maybe _you've_ all been fooled by this _save the children, love the world_ act Rufus Shinra's got going, but _I_ remember Sector 7 and _I_ remember Weapon and _I_ remember--"

_Static._

__**CH 17**

****_Blue backdrop. Un-lined corner photos. Not enough lipstick. Bulletin._

__"Shinra Corporation has called a special press conference. Notorious for being camera-shy since the meteor incident, President Rufus Shinra made an appearance, but left all of the talking to his spokeswoman, Neo-SOLDIER director, Hikou Shinohara."

_Static. Flash. Click. Flash._

__"After serious deliberation, the Shinra company has decided to reveal our newest campaign, the Neo-SOLDIER program. Those of you may recall the original SOLDIER program, turning out such skilled fighters as the legendary Cloud Strife. However, the Neo-SOLDIER program has been designed to keep at heart the best interests of the planet and its peoples. All applicants may express interest at any of our official building locations."

A cacophony of pleading questions. 

"Isn't the WRO already filling the space for this new program?"

"Competitive market." _Smile._ "I believe that the Neo-SOLDIER program has the capability to address issues the WRO simply does not have the resources for. As a volunteer agency, they lack proper morale and support. Participants in the Neo-SOLDIER program will have access to proper Shinra wages and benefits. Financially, Shinra has the capacity to disperse the Neo-SOLDIER program world-wide, not simply concentrated in the ex-Midgar area."

"What exactly does Shinra want to use this army for? It is an army, right?"

"It's high time Edge had a proper policing force. Of course our new SOLDIER candidates will be trained in combat, but certainly not for the purpose of warring. There are still many instances of mako-related mutations attacking villages all over the world, and it will take highly-skilled individuals to take care of these matters. Issues also need to be resolved with drill-work north of Rocket Town and general rebuilding and humanitarian aid across all four continents."

"What is your response to the comments made by Mr. Reeve Tuesti, leader of the WRO?"

"I'm afraid I haven't heard Mr. Tuesti's comments yet. Next question?"

"--He says this is another scraping for Shinra's rerise to power, and that the purest intent still lies singularly within the WRO."

"I assume Mr. Tuesti is misinformed, then. Next question."

"What of the recent disappearance of former WRO correspondent, Director Miura, and--"

"No comment."

"--how he--"

" _No comment._ "

_Click._

__**Black.**

****"She's not going to go away, Reeve."

He turns away from the television set, slow, undecided, undeceived. "I know."

"We're going to have to stop this before she starts it." His black hair is ruffled, black suit and Shinra badge scuffed and dirty, ripped from his adventure to simply make it here alive. "They've already sent TURK operatives to my house. She's already going after my wife. My children." 

But the man in the blue suit does not want to admit this, though Reeve already knows. "I know."

"It's going to be a control war." Yuuta knows this woman too well. The logic to this plan is so blatantly obvious, so neat. It's surprising that no one else has thought of it first. He is a little alarmed he hadn't brought it up himself, but it remains a whisper in his mind, a sacrifice to a greater world, built for the posterity of _tomorrow._ "She'll go for the oil first and then our throats. We'll be Shinra dissenters within the week, terrorists within the month."

He wants to throw the remote into the wall, finger still grazing the power button, but he sets it down, robotically. He is not used to having the _presence_ to throw tantrums. He remains level headed. "I know."

"We need to stop this, Reeve. We cannot let Shinra become a super power again." Yuuta's half-crazed because he's always been half-crazed, he just doesn't let it show the same as others, but the children, they were a good call. He's nervous now. "Let me do it. I've got to end this."

His skin is pressing too hard on plastic still, and even though his hand moves away with the best intent, the pressure catches. The remote drags to the edge of the desk, totters on the edge of the table between his fingers and nothingness for not even half a second before the mound of plastic crashes to the floor, cracks at the side, pops its batteries out the back. 

It's not broken, but it won't work. 

Reeve kicks at it desperately. 

"I know."


End file.
